The last time we spoke, WTF was rushing upstairs to pack for her Greek island idyll. Very lovely it was too, although you have to be at Gatwick Airport by 4 am in order to arrive in Corfu in time to catch the ferry. The earliness of the hour acts as a mild anaesthetic against the flotsam and jetsam milling about you, but it is still impossible to ignore the tattooes (WTF once saw a man with a tattooed HEAD, an image which lingers to this day), the flabby female thighs and the strappy tops displaying arms like hocks of ham and bulging backtits. Then at Corfu airport, there they are again, the men barechested and burnt to a crisp, the women peeling like a New York tickertape welcome. And don’t think things are any better amongst the middle class travellers. If you fork out another £50, Easyjet offers you Speedy Boarding which means that you can check in fast and get onto the plane first where you find yourself surrounded by posh kids with names like Jonty and Francesca crying out for Green and Blacks chocolate and another go on the iPad whilst their parents, dressed from head to foot in Boden, emit braying noises like a barn full of donkeys. From what she could see, WTF was the only woman not reading Fifty Shades of Filth.
On arriving back in London, WTF found herself in a ghost town. All the gloomy prognostications about Olympics traffic chaos succeeded in frightening everybody off. It is not the motorists muttering imprecations and feeling mutinous, it is the taxi drivers, the shopkeepers and the restaurateurs, all of whom have taken about thirty quid between them since 27 July. The blame for this fiasco lies squarely with the priapic bloated buffoon that is Mayor Boris Johnson. He was so intent upon warning people off coming into Central London by car that everyone simply stayed at home perving up over the beach volleyball on TV and refusing to enter the metropolis at all. That said, Boris provided the moment of the Games so far when he got stuck forty feet in the air on a zip wire and was left dangling like a highwayman on a gibbet for fully ten minutes, emitting cries of “yikes” and “get me a rope or a ladder” whilst the harness dug deeper into his goolies. Below him, rude mechanicals clicked away on their mobile phone cameras like paparazzi at the Academy Awards and showered him with abuse. As Wordsworth remarked, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!”.
The Brits have of course done brilliantly, winning loads of gold medals, not to mention silver and bronze AND WE ARE THIRD IN THE MEDALS TABLE. Everyone is now an expert on taekwondo, dressage and double sculling, although WTF refuses to believe that BMX is a proper sport for anyone over the age of 12. And the Opening Ceremony was astonishing. It is difficult to see how the Closing Ceremony is going to better Her Majesty’s cameo role with 007 unless Wills, Harry, Her Holiness the Duchess of Cambridge and Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie are all fired out of cannons to fly in formation across Stratford like the Red Arrows. But can we stage at least one national event without Sir Paul McCartney coming on at the end and murdering Hey Jude? It has to be said that the musical lineup for Sunday sounds pretty rank, what with dismal boy band One Direction and, it is rumoured, The Spice Girls. At this point, WTF may have to leave the room and look at her holiday snaps although watching Victoria Beckham pretending to sing might be a laugh.
And so to business, starting with Z lister of the week in the shape of actress Chelsee Healey.
I use the word “actress” loosely as WTF does not anticipate seeing Chelsee’s Lady Macbeth any time soon. Instead, she appears in the popular midweek series (read, crap) Waterloo Road. She also came second in Strictly Come Dancing in which celebs are taught to dance, in Chelsee’s case very successfully. This ensemble makes her look like the frilled white paper chop holders to stop your fingers getting messy.
In fact, if a frilly paper chop holder went to a fancy dress party dressed as Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? this is what it would look like. Shocking.
By the way, talking of the Z list, two weeks ago Heat Magazine was telling us all about Gemma and Arg off TOWIE and depicting their love as a cross between Abelard and Eloise and Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This week, the same publication is telling us that it is all going tits up. Surprise, surprise.
After the last posting, several loyal readers queried the omission of opera singer Lesley Garrett at the Tour de France in her union jack outfit. This was because WTF had managed to miss her altogether, but upon investigation it became clear that she more than merits an appearance, albeit a belated one.
As you can see, Lesley’s ghastly rendition of the National Anthem (ours) in honour of Sir Bradley of Wiggins’ epic victory caused him to wince visibly. Indeed, he looks ready to throw up into his golden chalice. As well as Lesley looking like an idiot (a crossover top is never a good idea on a large breasted woman and as for the skirt, words fail me), she also sounded like a scalded cat. Mind you, she has form for being an embarassment. Pick up any paper and you find her parroting on about her cystitis and how she has take an antibiotic every time she has sex. Lesley dear – we don’t want to know. Meanwhile, WTF is living in fear at the thought of Lesley and Sir Cliff Richard doing a double act, caterwauling away in their union jack finery like a couple of buskers down the tube. Please, please, may it never come to pass.
Let us move on to Sarah Jessica Parker looking even more emaciated than usual.
For goodness sake, woman. You look like someone living in a cardboard box outside Bloomingdales. Have a piece of toast with butter on it. And stop flashing your tits.
Here is singer Kat Deluna looking like a dog’s breakfast.
Admit it. This is really, really horrible. Those nasty inserts look like the hand of Freddy Kruger creeping over her breasts. Why this would be anybody’s look of choice WTF cannot say. Kat might also want to rethink the hair.
Now we have this week’s edition of The Emperor’s New Clothes featuring heiress, socialite, human rights campaigner and woman about town Jemima Khan, wearing Alexander McQueen.
This is further proof that millions of pounds can’t guarantee you a decent dress. What possessed Jemima to wear this is a mystery. What possessed Sarah Burton to design it is an even bigger mystery. It looks cheap. It looks creased. It has putrid pleating on the hem and neck like a straw beach umbrella. The shoes are vile. Jemima looks embarassed. She should be.
Earlier, we had poor Chelsee looking like the frill on a lamb chop. Now we have mutton dressed as lamb in the form of Madonna opening her new gym, Hard Candy, in Moscow.
This is just so terribly, terribly terrible. It is all expensive designer clothing and she looks like a sack of shit. The top is by Givenchy and looks like a bed jacket. The David Yurman necklace is unaccountably being worn as a chain belt like a wardress from Cell Block H. The stupid fingerless gloves are by Chanel. Fingerless gloves should only be worn by market stallholders. The YSL boots are bad and don’t fit her. But WTF are those pop socks? The only explanation is that Madge wanted to cover her kninckles. Sorry, but she looks like a Slav streetwalker. Madge had better be careful hanging around in her hotel bar on those long, light Russian summer nights. Dressed like that, she is likely to be approached by a bored Bulgarian businessman looking for some nocturnal entertainment.